LEY 


T© 
I  LEY 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 
MRS.    BEATRICE  J.  DANE 


RILEY  SONGS  OF  FRIENDSHIP 


RILEY 

SONGS  OF  FRIENDSHIP 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


WITH  PICTURES  BY 

WILL  VAWTER 


NEW  YORK 

GROSSET   &   DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright  1885,  1887,  1888,  1890 

1892,  1893,  1894,  1900,  1903,  1908,  1913,  1915 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


PS 


£<£>? 

To 
Young  E.  Allison  —  Bookman 


THE  BOOKMAN  he's  a  humming-bird- 
His  feasts  are  honey-fine, — 
(With  hi!  hilloo! 
And  clover-dew 
And  roses  lush  and  rare!) 
His  roses  are  the  phrase  and  word 
Of  olden  tomes  divine ; 
(With  hi!  and  ho! 
And  pinks  ablow 
And  posies  everywhere!) 
The  Bookman  he's  a  humming-bird, — 

He  steals  from  song  to  song — 
He  scents  the  ripest-blooming  rhyme, 

And  takes  his  heart  along 
And  sacks  all  sweets  of  bursting  verse 
And  ballads,  throng  on  throng. 
(With  ho  !  and  hey ! 
And  brook  and  brae, 
And  brinks  of  shade  and  shine!) 

A  humming-bird  the  Bookman  is — 
Though  cumbrous,  gray  and  grim, — 
(With  hi!  hilloo! 
And  honey-dew 
And  odors  musty-rare!) 
He  bends  him  o'er  that  page  of  his 
As  o'er  the  rose's  rim. 
(With  hi!  and  ho! 
And  pinks  aglow 
And  roses  everywhere!) 
Ay,  he's  the  featest  humming-bird, 

On  airiest  of  wings 
He  poises  pendent  o'er  the  poem 

That  blossoms  as  it  sings — 
God  friend  him  as  he  dips  his  beak 
In  such  delicious  things ! 
(With  ho!  and  hey! 
And  world  away 
And  only  dreams  for  him!) 


762227 


O    FRIENDS  of  mine,  whose  kindly  zvords  come  to  me 
Voiced  only  in  lost  lisps  of  ink  and  pen, 
If  I  had  power  to  tell  the  good  you  do  me, 
And  how  the  blood  you  warm  goes  laughing  through  me, 
My  tongue  would  babble  baby-talk  again. 

And  I  would  toddle  round  the  world  to  meet  you — 

Fall  at  your  feet,  and  clamber  to  your  knees 
And  w'ith  glad,  happy  hands  would  reach  and  greet  you, 
And  twine  my  arms  about  you,  and  entreat  you 
For  leave  to  weave  a  thousand  rhymes  like  these — 

A  thousand  rhymes  cnwr  ought  of  nought  out  presses 

Of  cherry-lip  and  apple-check  and  chin, 
And  pats  of  honeyed  palms,  and  rare  caresses, 
And  all  the  sweets  of  w'hich  as  Fancy  guesses 

She  folds  aw'ay  her  wings  and  swoons  therein. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ABE  MARTIN 142 

AMERICA'S  THANKSGIVING 182 

ANCIENT  PRJNTERMAN,  THE 101 

ART  AND  POETRY 78 

BACK  IROM  TOWN 23 

BE  OUR  FORTUNES  AS  THEY  MAY 34 

BECAUSE        152 

CHRISTMAS  GREETING 141 

DAN  O'SuLLivAN 132 

DEAD  JOKE  AND  THE  FUNNY  MAN,  THE 180 

DOWN  TO  THE  CAPITAL 80 

FRIEND  OF  A  WAYWARD  HOUR 46 

GOOD-BY  ER  HOWDY-DO 58 

HER  VALENTINE 140 

HERR  WEISER 153 

HOBO  VOLUNTARY,  A 25 

I  SMOKE  MY  PIPE 36 

IN  THE  AFTERNOON 148 

IN  THE  HEART  OF  JUNE 120 

JAMES  B.  MAYNARD 100 

LETTER  TO  A  FRIEND,  A 52 

"LITTLE  MAN  IN  THE  TINSHOP,  THE"       .           61 

LITTLE  OLD  POEM  THAT  XOBODY  READS,  THE 146 

MOTHER-SONG,  A .  158 

MY  BACHELOR  CHUM .74 

MY  FRIEND        126 

MY  HENRY        „  48 

xv 


CONTENTS— Continued 

PAGE 

MY  JOLLY  FRIEND'S  SECRET .  .114 

MY  OLD  FRIEND 134 

OLD  BAND,  THE 121 

OLD  CHUMS 89 

OLD-FASHIONED  BIBLE,  THE 54 

OLD  JOHN  HENRY 136 

OLD  INDIANY 185 

OLD  MAN,  THE 92 

OLD  MAN  AND  JIM,  THE 105 

OLD  SCHOOL-CHUM,  THE 112 

OUR  OLD  FRIEND  XEVERFAIL 72 

POET'S  LOVE  FOR  THE  CHILDREN,  THE 42 

REACH  YOUR  HAND  TO  ME 176 

SCOTTY 90 

SONG  BY  UNCLE  SIDNEY,  A 41 

STEPMOTHER,  THE 162 

THAT  NIGHT 168 

To  ALMON  KEEPER 170 

To  THE  QUIET  OBSERVER 174 

TOM  VAN  ARDEN 68 

TOMMY  SMITH 66 

TRAVELING  MAN,  THE 128 

UNCLE  SIDNEY  TO  MARCELLUS 40 

WHAT  "OLD  SANTA"  OVERHEARD 160 

WHEN  OLD  JACK  DIED 163 

WHEN  WE  THREE  MEET      ....  60 


xvi 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"SLEEP,  FOR  THY  MOTHER  BENDS  OVER  THEE  YET  !"     .    FRONTISPIECE 

BACK  FROM  TOWN — HEADPIECE 23 

A  HOBO  VOLUNTARY — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE 25 

HE  CAMPS   NEAR  TOWN,  ON  THE  OLD  CRICK-BANK          ....  27 

AND  SO  LIKEWISE  DOES  THE  FARMHANDS  STARE 31 

BE  OUR  FORTUNES  AS  THEY  MAY — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE  .      .  34 

AND  WRAPPED  IN  SHROUDS  OF  DRIFTING  CLOUDS 37 

UNCLE  SIDNEY  TO  MARCELLUS — HEADPIECE 40 

THE  POET'S  LOVE  FOR  THE  CHILDREN — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE    .  42 

OF  THE  ORCHARD-LANDS  OF  CHILDHOOD 43 

FRIEND  OF  A  WAYWARD  HOUR — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE     ...  46 

MY  HENRY — HEADPIECE 48 

NOTHIN'  THAT  BOY  WOULDN'T  RESK  !........  49 

A  LETTER  TO  A  FRIEND — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE 52 

THE  OLD-FASHIONED  BIBLE — HEADPIECE  .......  54 

THE  BLESSED  OLD  VOLUME '.....  55 

GOOD-BY  ER  HOWDY -DO — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE 58 

"THE  LITTLE  MAN  IN  THE  TINSHOP" — HEADPIECE  ....  61 

THE  ORCHESTRA,  WITH  ITS  MELODY 63 

TOMMY  SMITH — HEADPIECE 66 

OUR  OLD  FRIEND  NEVERFAIL — HEADPIECE 72 

MY  BACHELOR  CHUM — HEADPIECE 74 

HlS  MOUTH  IS  A  GRIN  WITH  THE  CORNERS  TUCKED  IN     ...  75 

ART  AND  POETRY — HEADPIECE 78 

DOWN  TO  THE  CAPITAL — HEADPIECE, 80 

To  OLD  ONE-LEGGED  CHAPS,  LIKE  ME 83 

xvii 


ILLUSTRATIONS— Continued 

PAGE 
"IT'S  ALL  JES*  ARTIFICIAL,  THIS-ERE  HIGH-PRICED  LIFE  OF  OURS" 

OLD  CHUMS — HEADPIECE 89 

SCOTTY — HEADPIECE 

THE  OLD  MAN — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE 92 

IN  YOUR  REPOSEFUL  GAZE 

THE  ANCIENT  PRINTERMAN — HEADPIECE 

0  PRINTERMAN  OF  SALLOW  FACE 

THE  OLD  MAN  AND  JIM— HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE  .  105 

"WELL,  GOOD-BY,  JIM" 107 

THE  OLD  SCHOOL-CHUM — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE       ....  112 

MY  JOLLY  FRIEND'S  SECRET — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE    ....  114 

AH,  FRIEND  OF  MINE,  HOW  GOES  IT 115 

THE  OLD  BAND — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE      .     .           ....  121 

1  WANT  TO  HEAR  THE  OLD  BAND  PLAY 123 

MY  FRIEND — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE 126 

THE  TRAVELING  MAN— HEADPIECE       ....           ...  128 

WHO  HAVE  MET  HIM  WITH  SMILES  AND  WITH  CHEER    .     .     .  129 

DAN  O'SuLLivAN — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE 132 

MY  OLD  FRIEND — HEADPIECE 134 

OLD  JOHN  HENRY — HEADPIECE       .                     .....  136 

A  SMILIN'  FACE  AND  A  HEARTY  HAND  ....                      .  137 

CHRISTMAS  GREETING — HEADPIECE       .     .                     ...  141 

ABE  MARTIN — HEADPIECE ...  142 

HlS  MOUTH,  LIKE  HIS  PIPE,  's  ALLUS  COIN* 143 

THE  LITTLE   OLD   POEM   THAT   NOBODY   READS — HEAD   AND 

TAILPIECE 146 

IN  THE  AFTERNOON — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE 148 

You  IN  THE  HAMMOCK;  AND  I,  NEAR  BY 149 

HERR  WEISER — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE  153 


ILLUSTRATIONS— Continued 

PAGE 

AND  LILY  AND  ASTER  AND  COLUMBINE 155 

A  MOTHER-SONG — HEADPIECE 158 

WHAT  "OLD  SANTA"  OVERHEARD — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE     .     .  160 

WHEN  OLD  JACK  DIED — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE 163 

WE  COULDN'T  ONLY  CRY  WHEN  OLD  JACK  DIED 165 

THAT  NIGHT — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE 168 

To  ALMON  KEEPER — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE 170 

UNDER  "THE  OLD  SWEET  APPLE  TREE" 171 

To  THE  QUIET  OBSERVER — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE       ...     .174 

REACH  YOUR  HAND  TO  ME — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE    ....  176 

REACH  YOUR  HAND  TO  ME,  MY  FRIEND 177 

THE  DEAD  JOKE  AND  THE  FUNNY  MAN — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE  180 

AMERICA'S  THANKSGIVING — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE     ....  182 

OLD  INDIANY — HEAD  AND  TAILPIECE 185 

BUT,  FELLERS,  SHE'S  A  LEAKY  STATE! „  187 


RILEY  SONGS  OF  FRIENDSHIP 


BACK  FROM  TOWN 

OLD  friends  allus  is  the  best, 
Halest-like  and  heartiest : 
Knowed  us  first,  and  don't  allow 
We're  so  blame  much  better  now ! 
They  was  standin'  at  the  bars 
When  we  grabbed  "the  kivvered  kyars" 
And  lit  out  fer  town,  to  make 
Money — and  that  old  mistake  ! 


BACK    FROM    TOWN 

We  thought  then  the  world  we  went 
Into  beat  "The  Settlement," 
And  the  friends  'at  we'd  make  there 
Would  beat  any  anywhere ! — 
And  they  do — f  er  that's  their  biz : 
They  beat  all  the  friends  they  is — 
'Cept  the  raal  old  friends  like  you 
'At  staid  at  home,  like  I'd  ort  to ! 

W'y,  of  all  the  good  things  yit 
I  ain't  shet  of,  is  to  quit 
Business,  and  git  back  to  sheer 
These  old  comforts  waitin'  here — 
These  old  friends ;  and  these  old  hands 
'At  a  feller  understands ; 
These  old  winter  nights,  and  old 
Young- folks  chased  in  out  the  cold ! 

Sing  "Hard  Times'll  come  ag'in 
No  More!"  and  neighbers  all  jine  in! 
Here's  a  feller  come  from  town 
Wants  that-air  old  fiddle  down 
From  the  chimbly ! — Git  the  floor 
Cleared  fer  one  cowtillion  more ! — 
It's  poke  the  kitchen  fire,  says  he, 
And  shake  a  friendly  leg  with  me ! 

24 


A  HOBO  VOLUNTARY 

OH,  the  hobo's  life  is  a  roving  life; 
It  robs  pretty  maids  of  their  heart's  delight — 
It  causes  them  to  weep  and  it  causes  them  to  mourn 
For  the  life  of  a  hobo,  never  to  return. 

The  hobo's  heart  it  is  light  and  free, 
Though  it's  Sweethearts  all,  farewell,  to  thee ! — 
Farewell  to  thee,  for  it's  far  away 
The  homeless  hobo's  footsteps  stray. 

In  the  morning  bright,  or  the  dusk  so  dim. 
It's  any  path  is  the  one  for  him ! 
He'll  take  his  chances,  long  or  short, 
For  to  meet  his  fate  with  a  valiant  heart. 


A    HOBO   VOLUNTARY 

Oh,  it's  beauty  mops  out  the  sidetracked-car, 
And  it's  beauty-beaut'  at  the  pigs-feet  bar ; 
But  when  his  drinks  and  his  eats  is  made 
Then  the  hobo  shunts  off  down  the  grade. 

He  camps  near  town,  on  the  old  crick-bank, 
And  he  cuts  his  name  on  the  water-tank — 
He  cuts  his  name  and  the  hobo  sign, — 
"Bound  for  the  land  of  corn  and  wine !" 

(Oh,  it's  I  like  friends  that  he'ps  me  through, 
And  the  friends  also  that  he'ps  you,  too, — 
Oh,  I  like  all  friends,  'most  every  kind 
But  I  don't  like  friends  that  don't  like  mine.) 

There's  friends  of  mine,  when  they  gits  the  hunch, 
Comes  a  swarmin'  in,  the  blasted  bunch, — 
"Clog-step  Jonny"  and  "Flat-wheel  Bill" 
And  "Brockey  Ike"  from  Circleville. 

With  "Cooney  Ward"  and  "Sikes  the  Kid" 
And  old  "Pop  Lawson"— the  best  we  had— 
The  rankest  mug  and  the  worst  for  lush 
And  the  dandiest  of  the  whole  blame  push. 


26 


A    HOBO    VOLUNTARY 


Oh,  them's  the  times  I  remembers  best 

When  I  took  my  chance  with  all  the  rest, 

And  hogged  fried  chicken  and  roastin'  ears,  too, 

And  sucked  cheroots  when  the  feed  was  through. 

Oh,  the  hobo's  way  is  the  railroad  line, 
And  it's  little  he  cares  for  schedule  time  ; 
Whatever  town  he's  a-striken  for 
Will  wait  for  him  till  he  gits  there. 

And  whatever  burg  that  he  lands  in 

There's  beauties  there  just  thick  for  him — 

There's  beauty  at  "The  Queen's  Taste  Lunch-stand," 

sure, 
Or  "The  Last  Chance  Boardin'  House"  back-door. 

He's  lonesome-like,  so  he  gits  run  in, 
To  git  the  hang  o'  the  world  ag'in  ; 
But  the  laundry  circles  he  moves  in  there 
Makes  him  sigh  for  the  country  air, — 


29 


A    HOBO   VOLUNTARY 

So  it's  Good-by  gals !  and  he  takes  his  chance 
And  wads  hisself  through  the  workhouse-fence 
He  sheds  the  town  and  the  railroad,  too, 
And  strikes  mud  roads  for  a  change  of  view. 

The  jay  drives  by  on  his  way  to  town, 
And  looks  on  the  hobo  in  high  scorn. 
And  so  likewise  does  the  farmhands  stare — 
But  what  the  haids  does  the  hobo  care ! 

He  hits  the  pike,  in  the  summer's  heat 
Or  the  winter's  cold,  with  its  snow  and  sleet — 
With  a  boot  on  one  foot,  and  one  shoe — 
Or  he  goes  barefoot,  if  he  chooses  to. 

But  he  likes  the  best,  when  the  days  is  warm, 
With  his  bum  Prince-Albert  on  his  arm — 
He  likes  to  size  up  a  farmhouse  where 
They  haint  no  man  nor  bulldog  there. 

Oh,  he  gits  his  meals  wherever  he  can, 
So  natchurly  he's  a  handy  man — 
He's  a  handy  man  both  day  and  night, 
And  he's  always  blest  with  an  appetite ! 


30 


A    HOBO    VOLUNTARY 

A  tin  o'  black  coffee,  and  a  rhuburb  pie — 
Be  they  old  and  cold  as  charity — 
They're  hot-stuff  enough  for  the  pore  hobo, 
And  it's  "Thanks,  kind  lady,  for  to  treat  me  so !" 

Then  he  fills  his  pipe  with  a  stub  cigar 
And  swipes  a  coal  from  the  kitchen  fire, 
And  the  hired  girl  says,  in  a  smilin'  tone, — 
"It's  good-by,  John,  if  you  call  that  goin' !" 

Oh,  the  hobo's  life  is  a  roving  life, 

It  robs  pretty  maids  of  their  heart's  delight — 

It  causes  them  to  weep  and  it  causes  them  to  mourn 

For  the  life  of  a  hobo,  never  to  return. 


BE  OUR  FORTUNES  AS  THEY  MAY 

BE  our  fortunes  as  they  may, 
Touched  with  loss  or  sorrow, 
Saddest  eyes  that  weep  to-day 
May  be  glad  to-morrow. 

Yesterday  the  rain  was  here, 
And  the  winds  were  blowing — 

Sky  and  earth  and  atmosphere 
Brimmed  and  overflowing. 


BE   OUR   FORTUNES    AS    THEY    MAY 

But  to-day  the  sun  is  out, 
And  the  drear  November 

We  were  then  so  vexed  about 
Now  we  scarce  remember. 

Yesterday  you  lost  a  friend — 
Bless  your  heart  and  love  it ! — 

For  you  scarce  could  comprehend 
All  the  aching  of  it ; — 

But  I  sing  to  you  and  say  : 
Let  the  lost  friend  sorrow — 

Here's  another  come  to-day, 
Others  may  to-morrow. 


I  SMOKE  MY  PIPE 

I  CAN'T  extend  to  every  friend 
In  need  a  helping  hand — 
No  matter  though  I  wish  it  so, 
'Tis  not  as  Fortune  planned  ; 
But  haply  may  I  fancy  they 

Are  men  of  different  stripe 
Than  others  think  who  hint  and  wink, 
And  so — I  smoke  my  pipe ! 

A  golden  coal  to  crown  the  bowl — 

My  pipe  and  I  alone, — 
I  sit  and  muse  with  idler  views 

Perchance  than  I  should  own  : — 
It  might  be  worse  to  own  the  purse 

Whose  glutted  bowels  gripe 
In  little  qualms  of  stinted  alms ; 

And  so  I  smoke  my  pipe. 


I    SMOKE    MY    PIPE 

And  if  inclined  to  moor  my  mind 

And  cast  the  anchor  Hope, 
A  puff  of  breath  will  put  to  death 

The  morbid  misanthrope 
That  lurks  inside — as  errors  hide 

In  standing  forms  of  type 
To  mar  at  birth  some  line  of  worth ; 

And  so  I  smoke  my  pipe. 

The  subtle  stings  misfortune  flings 

Can  give  me  little  pain 
\Yhen  my  narcotic  spell  has  wrought 

This  quiet  in  my  brain : 
When  I  can  waste  the  past  in  taste 

So  luscious  and  so  ripe 
That  like  an  elf  I  hug  myself ; 

And  so  I  smoke  my  pipe. 

And  wrapped  in  shrouds  of  drifting  clouds 

I  watch  the  phantom's  flight, 
Till  alien  eyes  from  Paradise 

Smile  on  me  as  I  write : 
And  I  forgive  the  wrongs  that  live, 

As  lightly  as  I  wipe 
Away  the  tear  that  rises  here  ; 

And  so  I  smoke  my  pipe. 
39 


UNCLE  SIDNEY  TO  MARCELLUS 

MARCELLUS,  won't  you  tell  us— 
Truly  tell  us,  if  you  can, — 
What  will  you  be,  Marcellus, 
When  you  get  to  be  a  man  ? 

You  turn,  with  never  answer 
But  to  the  band  that  plays. — 

O  rapt  and  eerie  dancer, 
What  of  your  future  days  ? 


UNCLE    SIDNEY    TO    MARCELLUS 

Far  in  the  years  before  us 
We  dreamers  see  your  fame, 

While  song  and  praise  in  chorus 
Make  music  of  your  name, 

And  though  our  dreams  foretell  us 

As  only  visions  can, 
You  must  prove  it,  O  Marcellus, 

When  you  get  to  be  a  man ! 


A  SONG  BY  UNCLE  SIDNEY 

OWERE  I  not  a  clod,  intent 
On  being  just  an  earthly  thing, 
I'd  be  that  rare  embodiment 

Of  Heart  and  Spirit,  Voice  and  Wing, 
With  pure,  ecstatic,  rapture-sent, 

Divinely-tender  twittering 
That  Echo  swoons  to  re-present, — • 
A  bluebird  In  the  Spring. 


41 


THE  POET'S  LOVE  FOR  THE  CHILDREN 

KINDLY  and  warm  and  tender, 
He  nestled  each  childish  palm 
So  close  in  his  own  that  his  touch  was  a  prayer 
And  his  speech  a  blessed  psalm. 

He  has  turned  from  the  marvelous  pages 
Of  many  an  alien  tome — 
Haply  come  down  from  Olivet, 
Or  out  from  the  gates  of  Rome — 


THE    POET'S    LOVE    FOR   THE    CHILDREN 

Set  sail  o'er  the  seas  between  him 
And  each  little  beckoning  hand 
That  fluttered  about  in  the  meadows 
And  groves  of  his  native  land, — 

Fluttered  and  flashed  on  his  vision 
As,  in  the  glimmering  light 
Of  the  orchard-lands  of  childhood, 
The  blossoms  of  pink  and  white. 

And  there  have  been  sobs  in  his  bosom, 
As  out  on  the  shores  he  stept, 
And  many  a  little  welcomer 
Has  wondered  why  he  wept. — 

i 
That  was  because,  O  children, 

Ye  might  not  always  be 

The  same  that  the  Savior's  arms  were  wound 

About,  in  Galilee. 


45 


FRIEND  OF  A  WAYWARD  HOUR 

FRIEND  of  a  wayward  hour,  you  came 
Like  some  good  ghost,  and  went  the  same 
And  I  within  the  haunted  place 
Sit  smiling  on  your  vanished  face, 
And  talking  with — your  name. 

But  thrice  the  pressure  of  your  hand- 
First  hail — congratulations — and 
Your  last  "God  bless  you !"  as  the  train 
That  brought  you  snatched  you  back  again 
Into  the  unknown  land. 


FRIEND    OF    A    WAYWARD    HOUR 

"God  bless  me  ?"    Why,  your  very  prayer 
Was  answered  ere  you  asked  it  there, 
I  know — for  when  you  came  to  lend 
Me  your  kind  hand,  and  call  me  friend, 
God  blessed  me  unaware. 


MY  HENRY 

HE'S  jes'  a  great,  big,  awk'ard,  hulkin' 
Feller, — humped,  and  sort  o'  sulkin'- 
Like,  and  ruther  still-appearin' — 
Kind-as-ef  he  wuzn't  keerin' 

Whether  school  helt  out  er  not — 
That's  my  Henry,  to  a  dot ! 

Allus  kind  o'  liked  him — whether 

Childern,  er  growed-up  together ! 

Fifteen  year'  ago  and  better, 

'Fore  he  ever  knowed  a  letter, 
Run  acrosst  the  little  fool 
In  my  Primer-class  at  school. 


MY    HENRY 


When  the  Teacher  wuzn't  lookin', 
He'd  be  th'owin'  wads ;  er  crookin' 
Pins  ;  er  sprinklin'  pepper,  more'n 
Likely,  on  the  stove ;  er  borin' 

Gimlet-holes  up  thue  his  desk — 
Nothin'  that  boy  wouldn't  resk ! 

But,  somehow,  as  I  was  goin' 
On  to  say,  he  seemed  so  knowin', 
Other  ways,  and  cute  and  cunnin' — 
Allus  wuz  a  notion  runnin' 

Thue  my  giddy,  fool-head  he 
Jes'  had  be'n  cut  out  f er  me ! 

Don't  go  much  on  prophesyin', 
But  last  night  whilse  I  wuz  fryin' 
Supper,  with  that  man  a-pitchin' 
Little  Marthy  round  the  kitchen, 

Think-says-I,  "Them  baby's  eyes 
Is  my  Henry's,  jes'  p'cise !" 


51 


A  LETTER  TO  A  FRIEND 

THE  past  is  like  a  story 
I  have  listened  to  in  dreams 
That  vanished  in  the  glory 

Of  the  Morning's  early  gleams  ; 
And — at  my  shadow  glancing— 

I  feel  a  loss  of  strength, 
As  the  Day  of  Life  advancing 
Leaves  it  shorn  of  half  its  length. 


A    LETTER    TO    A    FRIEND 

But  it's  all  in  vain  to  worry 

At  the  rapid  race  of  Time — 
And  he  flies  in  such  a  flurry 

When  I  trip  him  with  a  rhyme, 
I'll  bother  him  no  longer 

Than  to  thank  you  for  the  thought 
That  "my  fame  is  growing  stronger 

As  you  really  think  it  ought." 

And  though  I  fall  below  it, 

I  might  know  as  much  of  mirth 
To  live  and  die  a  poet 

Of  unacknowledged  worth ; 
For  Fame  is  but  a  vagrant — 

Though  a  loyal  one  and  brave, 
And  his  laurels  ne'er  so  fragrant 

As  when  scattered  o'er  the  grave. 


, 


53 


THE  OLD-FASHIONED  BIBLE 

HOW  dear  to  my  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood 
That  now  but  in  mem'ry  I  sadly  review ; 
The  old  meeting-house  at  the  edge  of  the  wildwood, 

The  rail  fence  and  horses  all  tethered  thereto ; 
The  low,  sloping  roof,  and  the  bell  in  the  steeple, 

The  doves  that  came  fluttering  out  overhead 
As  it  solemnly  gathered  the  God-fearing  people 
To  hear  the  old  Bible  my  grandfather  read. 
The  old-fashioned  Bible — 

The  dust-covered  Bible — 
The  leathern-bound  Bible  my  grandfather  read. 


THE    OLD-FASHIONED    BIBLE 

The  blessed  old  volume !    The  face  bent  above  it — 

As  now  I  recall  it — is  gravely  severe, 
Though  the  reverent  eye  that  droops  downward  to  love  it 

Makes  grander  the  text  through  the  lens  of  a  tear, 
And,  as  down  his  features  it  trickles  and  glistens, 

The  cough  of  the  deacon  is  stilled,  and  his  head 
Like  a  haloed  patriarch's  leans  as  he  listens 

To  hear  the  old  Bible  my  grandfather  read. 
The  old-fashioned  Bible — 
The  dust-covered  Bible — 

The  leathern-bound  Bible  my  grandfather  read. 

Ah !  who  shall  look  backward  with  scorn  and  derision 

And  scoff  the  old  book  though  it  uselessly  lies 
In  the  dust  of  the  past,  while  this  newer  revision        > 

Lisps  on  of  a  hope  and  a  home  in  the  skies? 
Shall  the  voice  of  the  Master  be  stifled  and  riven  ? 

Shall  we  hear  but  a  tithe  of  the  words  He  has  said, 
When  so  long  He  has,  listening,  leaned  out  of  Heaven 

To  hear  the  old  Bible  my  grandfather  read? 
The  old-fashioned  Bible — 

The  dust-covered  Bible — 

The  leathern-bound  Bible  my  grandfather  read. 


57 


GOOD-BY  ER  HOWDY-DO 

SAY  good-by  er  howdy-do — 
What's  the  odds  betwixt  the  two  ? 
Comin' — goin',  ev'ry  day — 
Best  friends  first  to  go  away — 
Grasp  of  hands  you'd  ruther  hold 
Than  their  weight  in  solid  gold 
Slips  their  grip  while  greetin'  you. — 
Say  good-by  er  howdy-do ! 


GOOD-BY    ER    HOWDY-DO 

Howdy-do,  and  then,  good-by — 
Mixes  jes'  like  laugh  and  cry ; 
Deaths  and  births,  and  worst  and  best, 
Tangled  their  contrariest ; 
Ev'ry  jinglin'  weddin'-bell 
Skeerin'  up  some  funer'l  knell. — 
Here's  my  song,  and  there's  your  sigh.— 
Howdy-do,  and  then,  good-by ! 

Say  good-by  er  howdy-do — 
Jes'  the  same  to  me  and  you  ; 
'Taint  worth  while  to  make  no  fuss, 
'Cause  the  job's  put  up  on  us ! 
Some  One's  runnin'  this  concern 
That's  got  nothin'  else  to  learn : 
Ef  He's  willin',  we'll  pull  through- 
Say  good-by  er  howdy-do ! 


WHEN  WE  THREE  MEET 

WHEN  we  three  meet?    Ah!  friend  of  mine 
Whose  verses  well  and  flow  as  wine, — 
My  thirsting  fancy  thou  dost  fill 
With  draughts  delicious,  sweeter  still 
Since  tasted  by  those  lips  of  thine. 

I  pledge  thee,  through  the  chill  sunshine 
Of  autumn,  with  a  warmth  divine, 
Thrilled  through  as  only  I  shall  thrill 
When  we  three  meet. 

I  pledge  thee,  if  we  fast  or  dine, 

We  yet  shall  loosen,  line  by  line, 
Old  ballads,  and  the  blither  trill 
Of  our-time  singers — for  there  will 

Be  with  us  all  the  Muses  nine 
When  we  three  meet. 


"THE  LITTLE  MAN  IN  THE  TINSHOP" 


WHEN  I  was  a  little  boy,  long  ago, 
And  spoke  of  the  theater  as  the  "show," 
The  first  one  that  I  went  to  see, 
Mother's  brother  it  was  took  me — 
(My  uncle,  of  course,  though  he  seemed  to  be 
Only  a  boy — I  loved  him  so!) 
And  ah,  how  pleasant  he  made  it  all ! 
And  the  things  he  knew  that  /  should  know ! — 
The  stage,  the  "drop,"  and  the  frescoed  wall ; 
The  sudden  flash  of  the  lights ;  and  oh, 
The  orchestra,  with  its  melody, 
And  the  lilt  and  jingle  and  jubilee 

Of  "The  Little  Man  in  the  Tinshop" ! 


"THE  LITTLE  MAN  IN  THE  TINSHOP 

For  Uncle  showed  me  the  "Leader"  there, 

With  his  pale,  bleak  forehead  and  long,  black  hair ; 

Showed  me  the  "Second,"  and  "  'Cello,"  and  "Bass/ 

And  the  "B-Flat,"  pouting  and  puffing  his  face 

At  the  little  end  of  the  horn  he  blew 

Silvery  bubbles  of  music  through ; 

And  he  coined  me  names  of  them,  each  in  turn, 

Some  comical  name  that  I  laughed  to  learn, 

Clean  on  down  to  the  last  and  best, — 

The  lively  little  man,  never  at  rest, 

Who  hides  away  at  the  end  of  the  string, 

And  tinkers  and  plays  on  everything, — 

That's  "The  Little  Man  in  the  Tinshop" ! 

Raking  a  drum  like  a  rattle  of  hail, 
Clinking  a  cymbal  or  castanet ; 
Chirping  a  twitter  or  sending  a  wail 
Through  a  piccolo  that  thrills  me  yet ; 
Reeling  ripples  of  riotous  bells, 
And  tipsy  tinkles  of  triangles — 
Wrangled  and  tangled  in  skeins  of  sound 
Till  it  seemed  that  my  very  soul  spun  round, 
As  I  leaned,  in  a  breathless  joy,  toward  my 
Radiant  uncle,  who  snapped  his  eye 
And  said,  with  the  courtliest  wave  of  his  hand, 
"Why,  that  little  master  of  all  the  band 
Is  The  Little  Man  in  the  Tinshop' ! 

62 


THE  LITTLE    MAN    IisT    THE   TINSHOP 

"And  I've  heard  Verdi,  the  Wonderful, 
And  Paganini,  and  Ole  Bull, 
Mozart,  Handel,  and  Mendelssohn, 
And  fair  Parepa,  whose  matchless  tone 
Karl,  her  master,  with  magic  bow, 
Blent  with  the  angels',  and  held  her  so 
Tranced  till  the  rapturous  Infinite — 
And  I've  heard  arias,  faint  and  low, 
From  many  an  operatic  light 
Glimmering  on  my  swimming  sight 
Dimmer  and  dimmer,  until,  at  last, 
I  still  sit,  holding  my  roses  fast 

For  'The  Little  Man  in  the  Tinshop.' ' 

Oho !  my  Little  Man,  joy  to  you — 
And  yours — and  theirs — your  lifetime  through  ! 
Though  I've  heard  melodies,  boy  and  man, 
Since  first  "the  show"  of  my  life  began, 
Never  yet  have  I  listened  to 
Sadder,  madder,  or  gladder  glees 
Than  your  unharmonied  harmonies ; 
For  yours  is  the  music  that  appeals 
To  all  the  fervor  the  boy's  heart  feels — 
All  his  glories,  his  wildest  cheers, 
His  bravest  hopes,  and  his  brightest  tears ; 
And  so,  with  his  first  bouquet,  he  kneels 
To  "The  Little  Man  in  the  Tinshop." 


TOMMY  SMITH 

DlMPLE-cheeked  and  rosy-lipped, 
With  his  cap-rim  backward  tipped, 
Still  in  fancy  I  can  see 
Little  Tommy  smile  on  me — 
Little  Tommy  Smith. 

Little  unsung  Tommy  Smith — 
Scarce  a  name  to  rhyme  it  with  ; 
Yet  most  tenderly  to  me 
Something  sings  unceasingly — 
Little  Tommy  Smith. 


TOMMY    SMITH 

On  the  verge  of  some  far  land 
Still  forever  does  he  stand, 
With, his  cap-rim  rakishly 
Tilted ;  so  he  smiles  on  me — 
Little  Tommy  Smith. 

Elder-blooms  contrast  the  grace 
Of  the  rover's  radiant  face — 
Whistling  back,  in  mimicry, 
"Old— Bob— White  !"  all  liquidly— 
Little  Tommy  Smith. 

O  my  jaunty  statuette 
Of  first  love,  I  see  you  yet. 
Though  you  smile  so  mistily, 
It  is  but  through  tears  I  see, 
Little  Tommy  Smith. 

But,  with  crown  tipped  back  behind, 
And  the  glad  hand  of  the  wind 
Smoothing  back  your  hair,  I  see 
Heaven's  best  angel  smile  on  me, — 
Little  Tommy  Smith. 


67 


TOM  VAN  ARDEN 

TOM  VAN  ARDEN,  my  old  friend, 
Our  warm  fellowship  is  one 
Far  too  old  to  comprehend 

Where  its  bond  was  first  begun  : 
Mirage-like  before  my  gaze 
Gleams  a  land  of  other  days, 
Where  two  truant  boys,  astray, 
Dream  their  lazy  lives  away. 

There's  a  vision,  in  the  guise 

Of  Midsummer,  where  the  Past 
Like  a  weary  beggar  lies 

In  the  shadow  Time  has  cast ; 
And  as  blends  the  bloom  of  trees 
With  the  drowsy  hum  of  bees, 
Fragrant  thoughts  and  murmurs  blend, 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 


TOM    VAN    ARDEN 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 

All  the  pleasures  we  have  known 
Thrill  me  now  as  I  extend 

This  old  hand  and  grasp  your  own — 
Feeling,  in  the  rude  caress, 
All  affection's  tenderness ; 
Feeling,  though  the  touch  be  rough, 
Our  old  souls  are  soft  enough. 

So  we'll  make  a  mellow  hour : 

Fill  your  pipe,  and  taste  the  wine — 
Warp  your  face,  if  it  be  sour, 
I  can  spare  a  smile  from  mine ; 
If  it  sharpen  up  your  wit, 
Let  me  feel  the  edge  of  it — 
I  have  eager  ears  to  lend, 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 
Are  we  "lucky  dogs,"  indeed? 
Are  we  all  that  we  pretend 
In  the  jolly  life  we  lead? — 
Bachelors,  we  must  confess, 
Boast  of  "single  blessedness" 
To  the  world,  but  not  alone- 
Man's  best  sorrow  is  his  own ! 
69 


TOM    VAN    ARDEN 

And  the  saddest  truth  is  this,— 
Life  to  us  has  never  proved 
What  we  tasted  in  the  kiss 
Of  the  women  we  have  loved : 
Vainly  we  congratulate 
Our  escape  from  such  a  fate 
As  their  lying  lips  could  send, 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend  ! 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 

Hearts,  like  fruit  upon  the  stem, 
Ripen  sweetest,  I  contend, 
As  the  frost  falls  over  them : 
Your  regard  for  me  to-day 
Makes  November  taste  of  May, 
And  through  every  vein  of  rhyme 
Pours  the  blood  of  summer-time. 

When  our  souls  are  cramped  with  youth 

Happiness  seems  far  away 
In  the  future,  while,  in  truth, 
We  look  back  on  it  to-day 

Through  our  tears,  nor  dare  to  boast,- 
"Better  to  have  loved  and  lost !" 
Broken  hearts  are  hard  to  mend, 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 
70 


TOM    VAN    ARDEN 

Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend, 

I  grow  prosy,  and  you  tire ; 
Fill  the  glasses  while  I  bend 

To  prod  up  the  failing  fire.    .    .    . 
You  are  restless : — I  presume 
There's  a  dampness  in  the  room. — • 
Much  of  warmth  our  nature  begs, 
With  rheumatics  in  our  legs !    .    .    . 

Humph !  the  legs  we  used  to  fling 

Limber- jointed  in  the  dance, 
When  we  heard  the  fiddle  ring 
Up  the  curtain  of  Romance, 
And  in  crowded  public  halls 
Played  with  hearts  like  jugglers'  balls.- 
Feats  of  mountebanks,  depend! — 
Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 

Tom  Van  Arden,  rny  old  friend, 

Pardon,  then,  this  theme  of  mine: 
While  the  firelight  leaps  to  lend 
Higher  color  to  the  wine, — 
I  propose  a  health  to  those 
Who  have  homes,  and  home's  repose, 
Wife-  and  child-love  without  end! 
.    .    .    Tom  Van  Arden,  my  old  friend. 
71 


o 


OUR  OLD  FRIEND  NEVERFAIL 


IT'S  good  to  ketch  a  relative  'at's  richer  and  don't 


run 


When  you  holler  out  to  hold  up,  and'll  joke  and  have  his 
fun; 

It's  good  to  hear  a  man  called  bad  and  then  find  out  he's 
not, 

Er  strike  some  chap  they  call  lukewarm  'at's  really  red- 
hot; 


OUR    OLD    FRIEND    NEVERFAIL 

It's  good  to  know  the  Devil's  painted  jes'  a  leetle  black, 
And  it's  good  to  have  most  anybody  pat  you  on  the 

back ; — 
But  jes'   the  best  thing  in  the  world's   our   old   friend 

Never  fail, 
When  he  wags  yer  hand  as  honest  as  an  old  dog  wags  his 

tail! 

I  like  to  strike  the  man  I  owe  the  same  time  I  can  pay, 
And  take  back  things   I've  berried,  and  su'prise   folks 

thataway ; 

I  like  to  find  out  that  the  man  I  voted  fer  last  fall, 
That  didn't  git  elected,  was  a  scoundrel  after  all ; 
I  like  the  man  that  likes  the  pore  and  he'ps  'em  when  he 

can; 

I  like  to  meet  a  ragged  tramp  'at's  still  a  gentleman ; 
But   most    I   like — with   you,    my   boy — our   old    friend 

Neverfail, 
When  he  wags  yer  hand  as  honest  as  an  old  dog  wags 

his  tail ! 


73 


MY  BACHELOR  CHUM 

A   CORPULENT  man  is  my  bachelor  chum, 
•*»•     With  a  neck  apoplectic  and  thick — 
An  abdomen  on  him  as  big  as  a  drum, 

And  a  fist  big  enough  for  the  stick ; 
With  a  walk  that  for  grace  is  clear  out  of  the  case, 

And  a  wobble  uncertain — as  though 
His  little  bow-legs  had  forgotten  the  pace 

That  in  youth  used  to  favor  him  so. 

He  is  forty,  at  least ;  and  the  top  of  his  head 

Is  a  bald  and  a  glittering  thing ; 
And  his  nose  and  his  two  chubby  cheeks  are  as  red 

As  three  rival  roses  in  spring ; 


MY   BACHELOR   CHUM 

His  mouth  is  a  grin  with  the  corners  tucked  in, 

And  his  laugh  is  so  breezy  and  bright 
That  it  ripples  his  features  and  dimples  his  chin 

With  a  billowy  look  of  delight. 

He  is  fond  of  declaring  he  "don't  care  a  straw" — 

That  "the  ills  of  a  bachelor's  life 
Are  blisses,  compared  with  a  mother-in-law 

And  a  boarding-school  miss  for  a  wife!" 
So  he  smokes  and  he  drinks,  and  he  jokes  and  he  winks, 

And  he  dines  and  he  wines,  all  alone, 
With  a  thumb  ever  ready  to  snap  as  he  thinks 

Of  the  comforts  he  never  has  known. 

But  up  in  his  den — (Ah,  my  bachelor  chum!)  — 

I  have  sat  with  him  there  in  the  gloom, 
When  the  laugh  of  his  lips  died  away  to  become 

But  a  phantom  of  mirth  in  the  room. 
And  to  look  on  him  there  you  would  love  him,  for  all 

His  ridiculous  ways,  and  be  dumb 
As  the  little  girl-face  that  smiles  down  from  the  wall 

On  the  tears  of  my  bachelor  chum. 


77 


ART  AND  POETRY 


TO   HOMER  DAVENPORT 

ESS  he  says,  and  sort  o'  grins, 
"Art  and  Poetry  is  twins ! 

"Yit,  if  I'd  my  pick,  I'd  shake 
Poetry,  and  no  mistake ! 

"Pictures,  allus,  'peared  to  me, 
Clean  laid  over  Poetry ! 


ART   AND   POETRY 

"Let  me  draw,  and  then,  i  jings, 
I'll  not  keer  a  straw  who  sings. 

"  'F  I  could  draw  as  you  have  drewt 
Like  to  jes'  swop  pens  with  you ! 

"Picture-drawin'  's  my  pet  vision 
Of  Life-work  in  Lands  Elysian. 

"Pictures  is  first  language  we 
Find  hacked  out  in  History. 

"Most  delight  we  ever  took 
Was  in  our  first  Picture-book. 

"  'Thout  the  funny  picture-makers, 
They'd  be  lots  more  undertakers ! 

"Still,  as  I  say,  Rhymes  and  Art 
'Smighty  hard  to  tell  apart. 

"Songs  and  pictures  go  together 
Same  as  birds  and  summer  weather." 

So  Wess  says,  and  sort  o'  grins, 
"Art  and  Poetry  is  twins." 

79 


DOWN  TO  THE  CAPITAL 

I'  BE'N  down  to  the  Capital  at  Washington,  D.  C, 
Where  Congerss  meets  and  passes  on  the  pensions  ort 

to  be 
Allowed  to  old  one-legged  chaps,  like  me,  'at  sence  the 

war 

Don't  wear  their  pants  in  pairs  at  all — and  yit  how  proud 
we  are! 


DOWN    TO   THE    CAPITAL 

Old  Flukens,  from  our  deestrick,  jes'  turned  in  and  tuck 

and  made 
Me  stay  with  him  whilse  I  was  there;  and  longer  'at  I 

stayed 

The  more  I  kep'  a-wantin'  jes'  to  kind  o'  git  away, 
And  yit  a-feelin'  sociabler  with  Flukens  ever'  day. 

You  see  I'd  got  the  idy — and  I  guess  most  folks  agrees — 
'At  men  as  rich  as  him,  you  know,  kin  do  jes'  what  they 

please ; 
A  man  worth  stacks  o'  money,  and  a  Congerssman  and 

all, 
And  livin'  in  a  buildin'  bigger'n  Masonic  Hall ! 

Now  mind,  I'm  not  a-faultin'  Fluke — he  made  his  money 
square : 

We  both  was  Forty-niners,  and  both  bu'sted  gittin'  there ; 

I  weakened  and  onwindlassed,  and  he  stuck  and  stayed 
and  made 

His  millions ;  don't  know  what  I'm  worth  untel  my  pen- 
sion's paid. 

But  I  was  goin'  to  tell  you — er  a-ruther  goin'  to  try 
To  tell  you  how  he's  livin'  now :  gas  burnin'  mighty  nigh 
In  ever'  room  about  the  house ;  and  ever'  night,  about, 
Some  blame  reception  goin'  on,  and  money  goin'  out. 

81 


DOWN    TO    THE    CAPITAL 

They's  people  there  from  all  the  world — jes'  ever'  kind 

'at  lives, 

Injuns  and  all !  and  Senaters,  and  Ripresentatives ; 
And  girls,  you  know,  jes'  dressed  in  gauze  and  roses,  I 

declare, 
And  even  old  men  shamblin'  round  a-waltzin'  with  'em 

there ! 

And  bands  a-tootin'  circus-tunes,  'way  in  some  other 
room 

Jes'  chokin'  full  o'  hothouse  plants  and  pinies  and  per- 
fume; 

And  fountains,  squirtin'  stiddy  all  the  time ;  and  statutes, 
made 

Out  o'  puore  marble,  'peared-like,  sneakin'  round  there 
in  the  shade. 

And  Fluke  he  coaxed  and  begged  and  pled  with  me  to 
take  a  hand 

And  sashay  in  amongst  'em — crutch  and  all,  you  under- 
stand ; 

But  when  I  said  how  tired  I  was,  and  made  fer  open  air, 

He  follered,  and  tel  five  o'clock  we  set  a-talkin'  there. 


82 


DOWN    TO   THE    CAPITAL 

"My  God!"  says  he — Fluke  says  to  me,  "I'm  tireder'n 

you ! 

Don't  putt  up  yer  tobacker  tel  you  give  a  man  a  chew. 
Set  back  a  leetle  f urder  in  the  shadder — that'll  do ; 
I'm  tireder'n  you,  old  man ;  I'm  tireder'n  you. 

"You  see  that-air  old  dome,"  says  he,  "humped  up  ag'inst 

the  sky  ? 

It's  grand,  first  time  you  see  it ;  but  it  changes,  by  and  by, 
And  then  it  stays  jes'  thataway — jes'  anchored  high  and 

dry 
Betwixt  the  sky  up  yender  and  the  achin'  of  yer  eye. 

"Night's  purty ;  not  so  purty,  though,  as  what  it  ust  to  be 
When  my  first  wife  was  livin'.     You  remember  her?" 

says  he. 

I  nodded-like,  and  Fluke  went  on,  "I  wonder  now  ef  she 
Knows  where  I  am — and  what  I  am — and  what  I  ust  to 

be? 

"That  band  in  there! — I  ust  to  think  'at  music  couldn't 

wear 

A  feller  out  the  way  it  does ;  but  that  ain't  music  there — 
That's  jes'  a'  imitation,  and  like  ever'thing,  I  swear, 
I  hear,  er  see,  er  tetch,  er  taste,  er  tackle  anywhere ! 


85 


DOWN    TO   THE    CAPITAL 

"It's  all  jes'  artificial,  this-'ere  high-priced  life  of  ours; 
The  theory,  it's  sweet  enough,  tel  it  saps  down  and  sours. 
They's  no  home  left,  ner  tics  o'  home  about  it.     By  the 

powers, 
The  whole  thing's  artificialer'n  artificial  flowers ! 

"And  all  I  want,  and  could  lay  down  and  sob  fer,  is  to 

know 

The  homely  things  of  homely  life  ;  fer  instance,  jes'  to  go 
And  set  down  by  the  kitchen  stove — Lord !  that  'u'd  rest 

me  so, — 
Jes'  set  there,  like  I  ust  to  do,  and  laugh  and  joke,  you 

know. 

"Jes'  set  there,  like  I  ust  to  do,"  says  Fluke,  a-startin'  in, 
Teared-like,  to  say  the  whole  thing  over  to  hisse'f  ag'in ; 
Then  stopped  and  turned,  and  kind  o'  coughed,  and 

stooped  and  fumbled  fer 
Somepin'  o'  'nuther  in  the  grass — I  guess  his  handker- 

cher. 

Well,   sence   I'm  back   from  Washington,   where   I  left 

Fluke  a-still 

A-leggin'  fer  me,  heart  and  soul,  on  that-air  pension  bill, 
I've  half-way  struck  the  notion,  when  I  think  o'  wealth 

and  sich, 
They's  nothin'  much  patheticker'n  jes'  a-bein'  rich ! 

86 


OLD  CHUMS 

T  F  I  die  first,"  my  old  chum  paused  to  say, 
•I      "Alind !  not  a  whimper  of  regret : — instead, 

Laugh  and  be  glad,  as  I  shall. — Being  dead, 
I  shall  not  lodge  so  very  far  away 
But  that  our  mirth  shall  mingle. — So,  the  day 

The  word  comes,  joy  with  me."  "I'll  try,"  I  said, 

Though,  even  speaking,  sighed  and  shook  my  head 
And  turned,  with  misted  eyes.    His  roundelay 
Rang  gaily  on  the  stair ;  and  then  the  door 

Opened  and — closed.    .    .    .    Yet  something  of  the 

clear, 

Hale  hope,  and  force  of  wholesome  faith  he  had 
Abided  with  me — strengthened  more  and  more. — 

Then — then  they  brought  his  broken  body  here : 
And  I  laughed — whisperingly — and  wre  were  glad. 


SCOTTY 

SCOTTY'S  dead.— Of  course  he  is ! 
Jes'  that  same  old  luck  of  his ! — 
Ever  sence  we  went  cahoots 
He's  be'n  first,  you  bet  yer  boots ! 
When  our  schoolin'  first  begun, 
Got  two  whippin's  to  my  one : 
Stold  and  smoked  the  first  cigar : 
Stood  up  first  before  the  bar, 
Takin'  whisky-straight — and  me 
Wastin'  time  on  "blackberry" ! 


SCOTTY 

Beat  me  in  the  Army,  too, 
And  clean  on  the  whole  way  through ! 
In  more  scrapes  around  the  camp, 
And  more  troubles,  on  the  tramp : 
Fought  and  fell  there  by  my  side 
With  more  bullets  in  his  hide, 
And  more  glory  in  the  cause, — 
That's  the  kind  o'  man  he  was ! 
Luck  liked  Scotty  more'n  me. — 
7  got  married :  Scotty,  he 
Never  even  would  apply 
Fer  the  pension-money  I 
Had  to  beg  of  "Uncle  Sam" — 
That's  the  kind  o'  cuss  /  am ! — 
Scotty  alms  first  and  best— 
Me  the  last  and  ornriest ! 
Yit  fer  all  that's  said  and  done — 
All  the  battles  fought  and  won — 
We  hain't  prospered,  him  ner  me — • 
Both  as  pore  as  pore  could  be, — 
Though  we've  allus,  up  tel  now, 
Stuck  together  anyhow — 
Scotty  allus,  as  I've  said, 
Luckiest — And  now  he's  dead! 


91 


THE  OLD  MAN 

E!  steadfast  and  serene, 
In  patient  pause  between 
The  seen  and  the  unseen, 

What  gentle  zephyrs  fan 
Your  silken  silver  hair, — 
And  what  diviner  air 
Breathes  round  you  like  a  prayer, 
Old  Man  ? 


THE   OLD    MAN 

Can  you,  in  nearer  view 
Of  Glory,  pierce  the  blue 
Of  happy  Heaven  through  ; 

And,  listening  mutely,  can 
Your  senses,  dull  to  us, 
Hear  Angel-voices  thus, 
In  chorus  glorious — 

Old  Man? 

In  your  reposeful  gaze 
The  dusk  of  Autumn  days 
Is  blent  with  April  haze, 

As  when  of  old  began 
The  bursting  of  the  bud 
Of  rosy  babyhood — 
When  all  the  world  was  good. 

Old  Man. 

And  yet  I  find  a  sly 
Little  twinkle  in  your  eye ; 
And  your  whisperingly  shy 

Little  laugh  is  simply  an 
Internal  shout  of  glee 
That  betrays  the  fallacy 
You'd  perpetrate  on  me, 

Old  Man. 

93 


THE   OLD    MAN 

So  just  put  up  the  frown 

That  your  brows  are  pulling  down ! 

Why,  the  fleetest  boy  in  town, 

As  he  bared  his  feet  and  ran, 
Could  read  with  half  a  glance — 
And  of  keen  rebuke,  perchance — 
Your  secret  countenance, 

Old  Man. 

Now,  honestly,  confess : 
Is  an  old  man  any  less 
Than  the  little  child  we  bless 

And  caress  when  we  can? 
Isn't  age  but  just  a  place 
Where  you  mask  the  childish  face 
To  preserve  its  inner  grace, 

Old  Man  ? 

Hasn't  age  a  truant  day, 
Just  as  that  you  went  astray 
In  the  wayward,  restless  way, 

When,  brown  with  dust  and  tan, 
Your  roguish  face  essayed, 
In  solemn  masquerade, 
To  hide  the  smile  it  made, 

Old  Man  ? 

94 


THE   OLD    MAN 

Now,  fair,  and  square,  and  true, 
Don't  your  old  soul  tremble  through, 
As  in  youth  it  used  to  do 

When  it  brimmed  and  overran 
With  the  strange,  enchanted  sights, 
And  the  splendors  and  delights 
Of  the  old  "Arabian  Nights," 

Old  Man  ? 

When,  haply,  you  have  fared 
Where  glad  Aladdin  shared 
His  lamp  with  you,  and  dared 

The  Afrite  and  his  clan  ; 
And,  with  him,  clambered  through 
The  trees  where  jewels  grew — 
And  filled  your  pockets,  too, 

Old  Man? 

Or,  with  Sinbad,  at  sea — 

And  in  veracity 

Who  has  sinned  as  bad  as  he, 

Or  would,  or  will,  or  can  ? — 
Have  you  listened  to  his  lies, 
With  open  mouth  and  eyes, 
And  learned  his  art  likewise, 

Old  Man? 

97 


THE   OLD    MAN 

And  you  need  not  deny 

That  your  eyes  were  wet  as  dry, 

Reading  novels  on  the  sly ! 

And  review  them,  if  you  can 
And  the  same  warm  tears  will  fall — 
Only  faster,  that  is  all — 
Over  Little  Nell  and  Paul, 

Old  Man ! 

Oh,  you  were  a  lucky  lad — 
Just  as  good  as  you  were  bad ! 
And  the  host  of  friends  you  had — 

Charley,  Tom,  and  Dick,  and  Dan  • 
And  the  old  School-Teacher,  too, 
Though  he  often  censured  you ; 
And  the  girls  in  pink  and  blue, 

Old  Man. 

And — as  often  you  have  leant, 
In  boyish  sentiment, 
To  kiss  the  letter  sent 

By  Nelly,  Belle,  or  Nan — 
Wherein  the  rose's  hue 
Was  red,  the  violet  blue — 
And  sugar  sweet — and  you, 

Old  Man,— 

98 


THE   OLD    MAN 

So,  to-day,  as  lives  the  bloom, 
And  the  sweetness,  and  perfume 
Of  the  blossoms,  I  assume, 

On  the  same  mysterious  plan 
The  Master's  love  assures, 
That  the  selfsame  boy  endures 
In  that  hale  old  heart  of  yours, 

Old  Man. 


H 


JAMES  B.  MAYNARD 

IS  daily,  nightly  task  is  o'er— 
He  leans  above  his  desk  no  more. 


His  pencil  and  his  pen  say  not 

One  further  word  of  gracious  thought. 

All  silent  is  his  voice,  yet  clear 
For  all  a  grateful  world  to  hear ; 

He  poured  abroad  his  human  love 
In  opulence  unmeasured  of — 

While,  in  return,  his  meek  demand, — 
The  warm  clasp  of  a  neighbor-hand 

In  recognition  of  the  true 
World's  duty  that  he  lived  to  do. 

So  was  he  kin  of  yours  and  mine — 
So,  even  by  the  hallowed  sign 

Of  silence  which  he  listens  to, 

He  hears  our  tears  as  falls  the  dew;.. 


THE  ANCIENT  PRINTERMAN 

OPRINTERMAN  of  sallow  face, 
And  look  of  absent  guile, 
Is  it  the  'copy'  on  your  'case' 
That  causes  you  to  smile? 
Or  is  it  some  old  treasure  scrap 
You  call  from  Memory's  file? 

"I  fain  would  guess  its  mystery — 

For  often  I  can  trace 
A  fellow  dreamer's  history 

Whene'er  it  haunts  the  face; 
Your  fancy's  running  riot 

In  a  retrospective  race! 


THE   ANCIENT   PRINTERMAN 

"Ah,  Printerman,  you're  straying 
Afar  from  'stick'  and  type — 

Your  heart  has  'gone  a-maying,' 
And  you  taste  old  kisses,  ripe 

Again  on  lips  that  pucker 
At  your  old  asthmatic  pipe ! 

"You  are  dreaming  of  old  pleasures 
That  have  faded  from  your  view ; 

And  the  music-burdened  measures 
Of  the  laughs  you  listen  to 

Are  now  but  angel-echoes — 
O,  have  I  spoken  true?" 

The  ancient  Printer  hinted 
With  a  motion  full  of  grace 

To  where  the  words  were  printed 
On  a  card  above  his  "case," — 

"I  am  deaf  and  dumb !"    I  left  him 

-  With  a  smile  upon  his  face. 


102 


THE  OLD  MAN  AND  JIM 

OLD  man  never  had  much  to  say — 
'Ceptin'  to  Jim, — 
And  Jim  was  the  wildest  boy  he  had— 

And  the  old  man  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him ! 
Never  heerd  him  speak  but  once 
Er  twice  in  my  life, — and  first  time  was 
When  the  army  broke  out,  and  Jim  he  went, 
The  old  man  backin'  him,  f  er  three  months ; 
And  all  'at  I  heerd  the  old  man  say 
Was,  jes'  as  we  turned  to  start  away, — 

"Well,  good-by,  Jim : 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f  !" 


THE   OLD    MAN   AND   JIM 

'Peared-like,  he  was  more  satisfied 

Jes'  lookin'  at  Jim 
And  likin'  him  all  to  hisse'f-like,  see? — 

'Cause  he  was  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him ! 
And  over  and  over  I  mind  the  day 
The  old  man  come  and  stood  round  in  the  way 
While  we  was  drillin',  a-watchin'  Jim — 
And  down  at  the  deepo  a-heerin'  him  say, 

"Well,  good-by,  Jim : 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f !" 

Never  was  nothin'  about  the  farm 

Disting'ished  Jim ; 
Neighbors  all  ust  to  wonder  why 

The  old  man  'peared  wrapped  up  in  him : 
But  when  Cap.  Biggler  he  writ  back 
'At  Jim  was  the  bravest  boy  we  had 
In  the  whole  dern  rigiment,  white  er  black, 
And  his  fightin'  good  as  his  farmin'  bad — 
'At  he  had  led,  with  a  bullet  clean 
Bored  through  his  thigh,  and  carried  the  flag 
Through  the  bloodiest  battle  you  ever  seen, — 
The  old  man  wound  up  a  letter  to  him 
'At  Cap.  read  to  us,  'at  said :  "Tell  Jim 

Good-by, 

And  take  keer  of  hisse'f." 

106 


THE    OLD    MAX    AND    JIM 


Jim  come  home  jes'  long  enough 

To  take  the  whim 
'At  he'd  like  to  go  back  in  the  calvery — 

And  the  old  man  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him ! 
Jim  'lowed  'at  he'd  had  sich  luck  afore, 
Guessed  he'd  tackle  her  three  years  more. 
And  the  old  man  give  him  a  colt  he'd  raised, 
And  follered  him  over  to  Camp  Ben  Wade, 
And  laid  around  fer  a  week  er  so, 
Watchin'  Jim  on  dress-parade — 
Tel  finally  he  rid  away, 
And  last  he  heerd  was  the  old  man  say, — 

"Well,  good-by,  Jim : 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f  !" 


THE   OLD    MAN    AND   JIM 


Tuk  the  papers,  the  old  man  did, 

A-watchin'  fer  Jim — 
Fully  believin'  he'd  make  his  mark 

Some  way — jes'  wrapped  up  in  him ! — 
And  many  a  time  the  word  'u'd  come 
'At  stirred  him  up  like  the  tap  of  a  drum — 
At  Petersburg,  fer  instunce,  where 
Jim  rid  right  into  their  cannons  there, 
And  ink  'em,  and  p'inted  'em  t'other  way, 
And  socked  it  home  to  the  boys  in  gray 
As  they  scooted  fer  timber,  and  on  and  on — 
Jim  a  lieutenant,  and  one  arm  gone, 
And  the  old  man's  words  in  his  mind  all  day,- 

"Well,  good-by,  Jim : 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f !" 


THE    OLD    MAN    AND    JIM 


Think  of  a  private,  now,  perhaps, 

We'll  say  like  Jim, 
'At's  dumb  clean  up  to  the  shoulder-straps- 

And  the  old  man  jes'  wrapped  up  in  him ! 
Think  of  him — with  the  war  plum'  through, 
And  the  glorious  old  Red-White-and-Blue 
A-laughin'  the  news  down  over  Jim, 
And  the  old  man,  bendin'  over  him — 
The  surgeon  turnin'  away  with  tears 
'At  hadn't  leaked  fer  years  and  years, 
As  the  hand  of  the  dyin'  boy  clung  to 
His  father's,  the  old  voice  in  his  ears, — 

"Well,  good-by,  Jim : 

Take  keer  of  yourse'f !" 


THE  OLD  SCHOOL-CHUM 


H 


E  puts  the  poem  by,  to  say 
His  eyes  are  not  themselves  to-day  ! 


A  sudden  glamour  o'er  his  sight — 
A  something  vague,  indefinite — 

An  oft-recurring  blur  that  blinds 
The  printed  meaning  of  the  lines, 

And  leaves  the  mind  all  dusk  and  dim 
In  swimming  darkness — strange  to  him ! 


THE    OLD    SCHOOL-CHUM 

It  is  not  childishness,  I  guess, — 
Yet  something  of  the  tenderness 

That  used  to  wet  his  lashes  when 
A  boy  seems  troubling  him  again ; — 

The  old  emotion,  sweet  and  wild, 
That  drove  him  truant  when  a  child, 

That  he  might  hide  the  tears  that  fell 
Above  the  lesson — "Little  Nell." 

And  so  it  is  he  puts  aside 
The  poem  he  has  vainly  tried 

To  follow ;  and,  as  one  who  sighs 
In  failure,  through  a  poor  disguise 

Of  smiles,  he  dries  his  tears,  to  say 
His  eyes  are  not  themselves  to-day. 


MY  JOLLY  FRIEND'S  SECRET 

AH,  friend  of  mine,  how  goes  it 
Since  you've  taken  you  a  mate?- 
Your  smile,  though,  plainly  shows  it 

Is  a  very  happy  state ! 
Dan  Cupid's  necromancy ! 

You  must  sit  you  down  and  dine, 
And  lubricate  your  fancy 
With  a  glass  or  two  of  wine. 


MY   JOLLY    FRIEND  S    SECRET 

And  as  you  have  "deserted," 

As  my  other  chums  have  done, 
While  I  laugh  alone  diverted, 

As  you  drop  off  one  by  one — 
And  I've  remained  unwedded, 

Till — you  see — look  here— that  I'm, 
In  a  manner,  "snatched  bald-headed" 

By  the  sportive  hand  of  Time ! 

I'm  an  "old  'un !"  yes,  but  wrinkles 

Are  not  so  plenty,  quite, 
As  to  cover  up  the  twinkles 

Of  the  boy — ain't  I  right? 
Yet  there  are  ghosts  of  kisses 

Under  this  mustache  of  mine 
My  mem'ry  only  misses 

When  I  drown  'em  out  with  wine. 

From  acknowledgment  so  ample, 

You  would  hardly  take  me  for 
What  I  am — a  perfect  sample 

Of  a  "jolly  bachelor"  ; 
Not  a  bachelor  has  being 

When  he  laughs  at  married  life 
But  his  heart  and  soul's  agreeing 

That  he  ought  to  have  a  wife ! 
117 


MY  JOLLY  FRIEND'S  SECRET 

Ah,  ha !  old  chum,  this  claret, 
Like  Fatima,  holds  the  key 

Of  the  old  Blue-Beardish  garret 
Of  my  hidden  mystery ! 

Did  you  say  you'd  like  to  listen  ? 
'  Ah,  my  boy !  the  "Sad  No  More!" 

And  the  tear-drops  that  will  glisten — 
Turn  the  catch  upon  the  door, 

And  sit  you  down  beside  me 

And  put  yourself  at  ease — 
I'll  trouble  you  to  slide  me 

That  wine  decanter,  please ; 
The  path  is  kind  o'  mazy 

Where  my  fancies  have  to  go, 
And  my  heart  gets  sort  o'  lazy 

On  the  journey — don't  you  know? 

Let  me  see — when  I  was  twenty — 

It's  a  lordly  age,  my  boy, 
When  a  fellow's  money's  plenty, 

And  the  leisure  to  enjoy — 


118 


MY   JOLLY   FRIEND  S    SECRET 

And  a  girl — with  hair  as  golden 
As — that;  and  lips — well — quite 

As  red  as  this  I'm  holdin' 
Between  you  and  the  light  ? 

And  eyes  and  a  complexion — 

Ah,  heavens ! — le'-me-see — 
Well, — just  in  this  connection, — 

Did  you  lock  that  door  for  me? 
Did  I  start  in  recitation 

My  past  life  to  recall? 
Well,  that's  an  indication 

I  am  purty  tight — that's  all ! 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  JUNE 

IN  the  heart  of  June,  love, 
You  and  I  together, 
On  from  dawn  till  noon,  love, 
Laughing  with  the  weather ; 
Blending  both  our  souls,  love, 

In  the  selfsame  tune, 
Drinking  all  life  holds,  love, 
In  the  heart  of  June. 

In  the  heart  of  June,  love, 

With  its  golden  weather, 
Underneath  the  moon,  love, 

You  and  I  together. 
Ah !  how  sweet  to  seem,  love, 

Drugged  and  half  aswoon 
With  this  luscious  dream,  love, 

In  the  heart  of  June. 


THE  OLD  BAND 

IT'S  mighty  good  to  git  back  to  the  old  town,  shore, 
Considering  I've  be'n  away  twenty  year  and  more. 
Sence  I  moved  then  to  Kansas,  of  course  I  see  a  change, 
A-comin'  back,  and  notice  things  that's  new  to  me  and 

strange ; 

Especially  at  evening  when  yer  new  band-fellers  meet, 
In  fancy  uniforms  and  all,  and  play  out  on  the  street — 
.     .     .     What's  come  of  old  Bill  Lindsey  and  the  Sax- 
horn fellers — say? 

I  want  to  hear  the  old  band  play. 


THE   OLD   BAND 

What's  come  of  Eastman,  and  Nat  Snow?    And  where's 

War  Barnett  at  ? 
And  Nate  and  Bony  Meek;  Bill  Hart;  Tom  Richa'son 

and  that- 
Air  brother  of  him  played  the  drum  as  twic't  as  big  as 

Jim; 
And  old  Hi  Kerns,  the  carpenter — say,  what's  become  o' 

him? 

I  make  no  doubt  yer  new  band  now's  a  competenter  band, 
And  plays  their  music  more  by  note  than  what  they  play 

by  hand, 

And  stylisher  and  grander  tunes ;  but  somehow — anyway, 
I  want  to  hear  the  old  band  play. 

Sich  tunes  as  "John  Brown's  Body"  and  ''Sweet  Alice," 

don't  you  know ; 
And  "The  Camels  is  A-comin',"  and  "John  Anderson,  my 

Jo"; 

And  a  dozent  others  of  'em — "Number  Nine"  and  "Num- 
ber 'Leven" 

Was  iavo-rites  that  fairly  made  a  feller  dream  o'  Heaven. 
And  when  the  boys  'u'd  saranade,  I've  laid  so  still  in  bed 
I've  even  heerd  the  locus'-blossoms  droppin'  on  the  shed 
When  "Lilly  Dale,"  er  "Hazel  Dell,"  had  sobbed  and  died 
away — 

.     .     .     I  want  to  hear  the  old  band  play. 

122 


THE    OLD   BAND 

Yer  new  band  ma'by  beats  it,  but  the  old  band's  what  I 

said — 
It  allus  'peared  to  kind  o'  chord  with  somepin'  in  my 

head; 
And,  whilse  I'm  no  musicianer,  when  my  blame'  eyes  is 

jes' 
Nigh  drownded  out,  and  Mem'ry  squares  her  jaws  and 

sort  o'  says 

She  won't  ner  never  will  fergit,  I  want  to  jes'  turn  in 
And  take  and  light  right  out  o'  here  and  git  back  West 

ag'in 
And  stay  there,  when  I  git  there,  where  I  never  haf  to 

say 

I  want  to  hear  the  old  band  play. 


MY  FRIEND 

"T  T  E  is  my  friend,"  I  said,— 
li.  "Be  patient !"    Overhead 
The  skies  were  drear  and  dim ; 
And  lo !  the  thought  of  him 
Smiled  on  my  heart — and  then 
The  sun  shone  out  again ! 

"He  is  my  friend !"    The  words 
Brought  summer  and  the  birds ; 
And  all  my  winter-time 
Thawed  into  running  rhyme 
And  rippled  into  song, 
Warm,  tender,  brave,  and  strong. 


MY    FRIEND 

And  so  it  sings  to-day. — 
So  may  it  sing  alway ! 
Though  waving  grasses  grow 
Between,  and  lilies  blow 
Their  trills  of  perfume  clear 
As  laughter  to  the  ear, 
Let  each  mute  measure  end 
With  "Still  he  is  thy  friend." 


THE  TRAVELING  MAN 
I 

COULD  I  pour  out  the  nectar  the  gods  only  can, 
I  would  fill  up  my  glass  to  the  brim 
And  drink  the  success  of  the  Traveling  Man, 

And  the  house  represented  by  him ; 
And  could  I  but  tincture  the  glorious  draught 

With  his  smiles,  as  I  drank  to  him  then, 
And  the  jokes  he  has  told  and  the  laughs  he  has  laughed, 
I  would  fill  up  the  goblet  again — 

And  drink  to  the  sweetheart  who  gave  him  good-by 

With  a  tenderness  thrilling  him  this 
Very  hour,  as  he  thinks  of  the  tear  in  her  eye 

That  salted  the  sweet  of  her  kiss ; 
To  her  truest  of  hearts  and  her  fairest  of  hands 

I  would  drink,  with  all  serious  prayers, 
Since  the  heart  she  must  trust  is  a  Traveling  Man's, 

And  as  warm  as  the  ulster  he  wears. 


THE    TRAVELING    MAN 


II 


I  would  drink  to  the  wife,  with  the  babe  on  her  knee, 

Who  awaits  his  returning  in  vain — 
Who  breaks  his  brave  letters  so  tremulously 

And  reads  them  again  and  again  ! 
And  I'd  drink  to  the  feeble  old  mother  who  sits 

At  the  warm  fireside  of  her  son 
And  murmurs  and  weeps  o'er  the  stocking  she  knits, 

As  she  thinks  of  the  wandering  one. 

I  would  drink  a  long  life  and  a  health  to  the  friends 

Who  have  met  him  with  smiles  and  with  cheer — • 
To  the  generous  hand  that  the  landlord  extends 

To  the  wayfarer  journeying  here : 
And  I  pledge,  when  he  turns  from  this  earthly  abode 

And  pays  the  last  fare  that  he  can, 
Mine  Host  of  the  Inn  at  the  End  of  the  Road 

Will  welcome  the  Traveling  Man ! 


131 


DAN  O'SULLIVAN 

DAN  O'SULLIVAN  :   It's  your 
Lips  have  kissed  "The  Blarney,"  sure  !- 
To  be  trillin'  praise  av  me, 
Dhrippin'  swhate  wid  poethry ! — 
Not  that  I'd  not  have  ye  sing — 
Don't  lave  off  for  anything — 
Jusht  be  aisy  whilst  the  fit 
Av  me  head  shwells  up  to  it ! 

Dade  and  thrue,  I'm  not  the  man, 
Whilst  yer  singin',  loike  ye  can, 
To  cry  shtop  because  ye've  blesht 
My  songs  more  than  all  the  resht : — • 
I'll  not  be  the  b'y  to  ax 
Any  shtar  to  wane  or  wax, 
Or  ax  any  clock  that's  woun' 
To  run  up  inshtid  av  down ! 


DAN    O'SULLIVAN 

Whist  yez !    Dan  O'Sullivan  !— 

Him  that  made  the  Irishman 

Mixt  the  birds  in  wid  the  dough, 

And  the  dew  and  mistletoe 

Wid  the  whusky  in  the  quare 

Muggs  av  us — and  here  we  air, 

Three  parts  right,  and  three  parts  wrong, 

Shpiked  with  beauty,  wit  and  song ! 


MY  OLD  FRIEND 

YOU'VE  a  manner  all  so  mellow, 
My  old  friend, 
That  it  cheers  and  warms  a  fellow, 

My  old  friend, 

Just  to  meet  and  greet  you,  and 
Feel  the  pressure  of  a  hand 
That  one  may  understand, 
My  old  friend. 


MY    OLD    FRIEND 

Though  dimmed  in  youthful  splendor. 

My  old  friend, 
Your  smiles  are  still  as  tender, 

My  old  friend, 
And  your  eyes  as  true  a  blue 
As  your  childhood  ever  knew, 
And  your  laugh  as  merry,  too, 

My  old  friend. 

For  though  your  hair  is  faded, 

My  old  friend, 
And  your  step  a  trifle  jaded, 

My  old  friend, 
Old  Time,  with  all  his  lures 
In  the  trophies  he  secures, 
Leaves  young  that  heart  of  yours, 

My  old  friend. 

And  so  it  is  you  cheer  me, 

My  old  friend, 
For  to  know  you  still  are  near  me, 

My  old  friend, 

Makes  my  hopes  of  clearer  light, 
And  my  faith  of  surer  sight, 
And  my  soul  a  purer  white, 

My  old  friend. 
135 


OLD  JOHN  HENRY 

OLD  John's  jes'  made  o'  the  commonest  stuff- 
Old  John  Henry- 
He's  tough,  I  reckon, — but  none  too  tough — 
Too  tough  though's  better  than  not  enough ! 

Says  old  John  Henry. 
He  does  his  best,  and  when  his  best's  bad, 
He  don't  fret  none,  ner  he  don't  git  sad — - 
He  simply  'lows  it's  the  best  he  had : 
Old  John  Henry ! 


OLD   JOHN    HENRY 

His  doctern's  jes'  o'  the  plainest  brand — 

Old  John  Henry — 
A  smilin'  face  and  a  hearty  hand 
'S  religen  'at  all  folks  understand, 

Says  old  John  Henry. 
He's  stove  up  some  with  the  rhumatiz, 
And  they  hain't  no  shine  on  them  shoes  o'  his, 
And  his  hair  hain't  cut — but  his  eye-teeth  is : 

Old  John  Henry ! 

He  feeds  hisse'f  when  the  stock's  all  fed — 

Old  John  Henry — 

And  sleeps  like  a  babe  when  he  goes  to  bed — 
And  dreams  o'  Heaven  and  home-made  bread, 

Says  old  John  Henry. 
He  hain't  refined  as  he'd  ort  to  be 
To  fit  the  statutes  o'  poetry, 
Ner  his  clothes  don't  fit  him — but  he  fits  me: 

Old  John  Henry ! 


139 


HER  VALENTINE 

SOMEBODY'S  sent  a  funny  little  valentine  to  me. 
It's  a  bunch  of  baby-roses  in  a  vase  of  filigree, 
And  hovering  above  them — just  as  cute  as  he  can  be — 
Is  a  fairy  Cupid  tangled  in  a  scarf  of  poetry. 

And  the  prankish  little  fellow  looks  so  knowing  in  his 

glee, 

With  his  golden  bow  and  arrow,  aiming  most  unerringly 
At  a  pair  of  hearts  so  labeled  that  I  may  read  and  see 
That  one  is  meant  for  "One  Who  Loves,"  and  one  is 

meant  for  me. 

But  I  know  the  lad  who  sent  it !  It's  as  plain  as  A-B-C ! — 
For  the  roses  they  are  blushing,  and  the  vase  stands  awk- 
wardly, 

And  the  little  god  above  it — though  as  cute  as  he  can  be — 
Can  not  breathe  the  lightest  whisper  of  his  burning  love 
for  me. 


CHRISTMAS  GREETING 

A  WORD  of  Godspeed  and  good  cheer 
To  all  on  earth,  or  far  or  near, 
Or  friend  or  foe,  or  thine  or  mine — 
In  echo  of  the  voice  divine, 
Heard  when  the  star  bloomed  forth  and  lit 
The  world's  face,  with  God's  smile  on  it. 


ABE  MARTIN 

ABE  MARTIN  !— dad-burn  his  old  picture ! 
P'tends  he's  a  Brown  County  fixture — 
A  kind  of  a  comical  mixture 

Of  hoss-sense  and  no  sense  at  all ! 
His  mouth,  like  his  pipe,  's  allus  goin', 
And  his  thoughts,  like  his  whiskers,  is  flowin', 
And  what  he  don't  know  ain't  wuth  knowin' — 
From  Genesis  clean  to  baseball ! 


ABE    MARTIN 

The  artist,  Kin  Hubbard,  's  so  keerless 
He  draws  Abe  'most  eyeless  and  earless, 
But  he's  never  yet  pictured  him  cheerless 

Er  with  fun  'at  he  tries  to  conceal, — 
Whuther  on  to  the  fence  er  clean  over 
A-rootin'  up  ragweed  er  clover, 
Skeert  stiff  at  some  "Rambler"  er  "Rover" 

Er  newfangled  auiomobeel! 

It's  a  purty  steep  climate  old  Brown's  in ; 
And  the  rains  there  his  ducks  nearly  drowns  in 
The  old  man  hisse'f  wades  his  rounds  in 

As  ca'm  and  serene,  mighty  nigh 
As  the  old  handsaw-hawg,  er  the  mottled 
Milch  cow,  er  the  old  rooster  wattled 
Like  the  mumps  had  him  'most  so  well  throttled 

That  it  was  a  pleasure  to  die. 

But  best  of  'em  all's  the  fool-breaks  'at 
Abe  don't  see  at  all,  and  yit  makes  'at 
Both  me  and  you  lays  back  and  shakes  at 

His  comic,  miraculous  cracks 
Which  makes  him — clean  back  of  the  power 
Of  genius  itse'f  in  its  flower — 
This  Notable  Man  of  the  Hour, 

Abe  Martin,  The  Joker  on  Facts. 
145 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  POEM  THAT  NOBODY 
READS 

THE  little  old  poem  that  nobody  reads 
Blooms  in  a  crowded  space, 
Like  a  ground-vine  blossom,  so  low  in  the  weeds 
That  nobody  sees  its  face — 

Unless,  perchance,  the  reader's  eye 
Stares  through  a  yawn,  and  hurries  by, 
For  no  one  wants,  or  loves,  or  heeds, 
The  little  old  poem  that  nobody  reads. 


THE   LITTLE   OLD   POEM    THAT    NOBODY    READS 

The  little  old  poem  that  nobody  reads 
Was  written — where? — and  when? 
Maybe  a  hand  of  goodly  deeds 
Thrilled  as  it  held  the  pen : 

Maybe  the  fountain  whence  it  came 
Was  a  heart  brimmed  o'er  with  tears  of  shame, 
And  maybe  its  creed  is  the  worst  of  creeds — 
The  little  old  poem  that  nobody  reads. 

But,  little  old  poem  that  nobody  reads, 

Holding  you  here  above 
The  wound  of  a  heart  that  warmly  bleeds 
For  all  that  knows  not  love, 

I  well  believe  if  the  old  World  knew 
As  dear  a  friend  as  I  find  in  you, 
That  friend  would  tell  it  that  all  it  needs 
Is  the  little  old  poem  that  nobody  reads. 


IN  THE  AFTERNOON 

YOU  in  the  hammock ;  and  I,  near  by, 
Was  trying  to  read,  and  to  swing  you,  too ; 
And  the  green  of  the  sward  was  so  kind  to  the  eye, 
And  the  shade  of  the  maples  so  cool  and  blue, 
That  often  I  looked  from  the  book  to  you 
To  say  as  much,  with  a  sigh. 

You  in  the  hammock.    The  book  we'd  brought 
From  the  parlor — to  read  in  the  open  air, — 

Something  of  love  and  of  Launcelot 
And  Guinevere,  I  believe,  was  there — 
But  the  afternoon,  it  was  far  more  fair 

Than  the  poem  was,  I  thought. 


IN    THE    AFTERNOON 

You  in  the  hammock ;  and  on  and  on 

I  droned  and  droned  through  the  rhythmic  stuff- 
But,  with  always  a  half  of  my  vision  gone 

Over  the  top  of  the  page — enough 

To  caressingly  gaze  at  you,  swathed  in  the  fluff 
Of  your  hair  and  your  odorous  "lawn." 

You  in  the  hammock — and  that  was  a  year — 
Fully  a  year  ago,  I  guess — 

And  what  do  we  care  for  their  Guinevere 
And  her  Launcelot  and  their  lordliness!— - 
You  in  the  hammock  still,  and — Yes — 

Kiss  me  again,  my  dear ! 


BECAUSE 

WHY  did  we  meet  long  years  of  yore? 
And  why  did  we  strike  hands  and  say 
"We  will  be  friends  and  nothing  more" ; 
Why  are  we  musing  thus  to-day? 
Because  because  was  just  because, 
And  no  one  knew  just  why  it  was. 

Why  did  I  say  good-by  to  you  ? 

Why  did  I  sail  across  the  main? 
Why  did  I  love  not  heaven's  own  blue 
Until  I  touched  these  shores  again? 
Because  because  was  just  because, 
And  you  nor  I  knew  why  it  was. 

Why  are  my  arms  about  you  now, 

And  happy  tears  upon  your  cheek  ? 
And  why  my  kisses  on  your  brow? 
Look  up  in  thankfulness  and  speak! 
Because  because  was  just  because, 
And  only  God  knew  why  it  was. 


HERR  WEISER 

HERR  WEISER ! — Threescore  years  and  ten,- 
A  hale  white  rose  of  his  countrymen, 
Transplanted  here  in  the  Hoosier  loam, 
And  blossomy  as  his  German  home — 
As  blossomy  and  as  pure  and  sweet 
As  the  cool  green  glen  of  his  calm  retreat, 
Far  withdrawn  from  the  noisy  town 
Where  trade  goes  clamoring  up  and  down, 
Whose  fret  and  fever,  and  stress  and  strife, 
May  not  trouble  his  tranquil  life ! 


HERR    WEISER 


Breath  of  rest,  what  a  balmy  gust ! — • 

Quit  of  the  city's  heat  and  dust, 

Jostling  down  by  the  winding  road 

Through  the  orchard  ways  of  his  quaint  abode. — 

Tether  the  horse,  as  we  onward  fare 

Under  the  pear  trees  trailing  there, 

And  thumping  the  wooden  bridge  at  night 

With  lumps  of  ripeness  and  lush  delight, 

Till  the  stream,  as  it  maunders  on  till  dawn, 

Is  powdered  and  pelted  and  smiled  upon. 

Herr  Weiser,  with  his  wholesome  face, 

And  the  gentle  blue  of  his  eyes,  and  grace 

Of  unassuming  honesty, 

Be  there  to  welcome  you  and  me ! 

And  what  though  the  toil  of  the  farm  be  stopped 

And  the  tireless  plans  of  the  place  be  dropped, 

While  the  prayerful  master's  knees  are  set 

In  beds  of  pansy  and  mignonette 

And  lily  and  aster  and  columbine, 

Offered  in  love,  as  yours  and  mine  ? — 


154 


HERR   WEISER 

What,  but  a  blessing  of  kindly  thought, 

Sweet  as  the  breath  of  forget-me-not ! — 

What,  but  a  spirit  of  lustrous  love 

White  as  the  aster  he  bends  above ! — 

W'hat,  but  an  odorous  memory 

Of  the  dear  old  man,  made  known  to  me 

In  days  demanding  a  help  like  his, — 

As  sweet  as  the  life  of  the  lily  is — 

As  sweet  as  the  soul  of  a  babe,  bloom- wise 

Born  of  a  lily  in  Paradise. 


A  MOTHER-SONG 

MOTHER,  O  mother !  forever  I  cry  for  you, 
Sing  the  old  song  I  may  never  forget ; 
Even  in  .slumber  I  murmur  and  sigh  for  you. — 
Mother,  O  mother, 

Sing  low,  "Little  brother, 
Sleep,  for  thy  mother  bends  over  thee  yet !" 


A    MOTHER-SONG 

Mother,  O  mother !  the  years  are  so  lonely, 
Filled  but  with  weariness,  doubt  and  regret ! 

Can't  you  come  back  to  me — for  to-night  only, 
Mother,  my  mother, 

And  sing,  "Little  brother, 

Sleep,  for  thy  mother  bends  over  thee  yet !" 

Mother,  O  mother !  of  old  I  had  never 
One  wish  denied  me,  nor  trouble  to  fret ; 

Now — must  I  cry  out  all  vainly  forever, — 
Mother,  sweet  mother, 

O  sing,  "Little  brother, 

Sleep,  for  thy  mother  bends  over  thee  yet !" 

Mother,  O  mother !  must  longing  and  sorrow 
Leave  me  in  darkness,  with  eyes  ever  wet, 

And  never  the  hope  of  a  meeting  to-morrow  ? 
Answer  me,  mother, 

And  sing,  "Little  brother, 

Sleep,  for  thy  mother  bends  over  thee  yet !" 


159 


WHAT  "OLD  SANTA"  OVERHEARD 

'  CJ~* IS  said  old  Santa  Claus  one  time 
*-      Told  this  joke  on  himself  in  rhyme; 
One  Christmas,  in  the  early  din 
That  ever  leads  the  morning  in, 
I  heard  the  happy  children  shout 
In  rapture  at  the  toys  turned  out 
Of  bulging  little  socks  and  shoes — 
A  joy  at  which  I  could  but  choose 
To  listen  enviously,  because 
I'm  always  just  "Old  Santa  Claus," — 
But  ere  my  rising  sigh  had  got 
To  its  first  quaver  at  the  thought, 
It  broke  in  laughter,  as  I  heard 
A  little  voice  chirp  like  a  bird, — 


WHAT      OLD   SANTA      OVERHEARD 

"Old  Santa's  mighty  good,  I  know, 
And  awful  rich — and  he  can  go 
Down  ever'  chimbly  anywhere 
In  all  the  world ! — But  I  don't  care, 
/  wouldn't  trade  with  him,  and  be 
Old  Santa  Clause,  and  him  be  me, 
Fer  all  his  toys  and  things  ! — and  7 
Know  why,  and  bet  you  he  knows  why  !- 
They  wuz  no  Santa  Clause  when  he 
Wuz  ist  a  little  boy  like  me !" 


THE  STEPMOTHER 

FIRST  she  come  to  our  house, 
Tommy  run  and  hid ; 
And  Emily  and  Bob  and  me 
We  cried  jus'  like  we  did 
When  Mother  died, — and  we  all  said 
'At  we  all  wisht  'at  we  was  dead ! 

And  Nurse  she  couldn't  stop  us ; 

And  Pa  he  tried  and  tried, — 
We  sobbed  and  shook  and  wouldn't  look, 

But  only  cried  and  cried ; 
And  nen  some  one — we  couldn't  jus' 
Tell  who — was  cryin'  same  as  us ! 

Our  Stepmother !    Yes,  it  was  her, 

Her  arms  around  us  all— 
'Cause  Tom  slid  down  the  banister 

And  peeked  in  from  the  hall. — 
And  we  all  love  her,  too,  because 
She's  purt'  nigh  good  as  Mother  was  i 


WHEN  OLD  JACK  DIED 

WHEN  Old  Jack  died,  we  stayed  from  school 
(they  said, 

At  home,  we  needn't  go  that  day),  and  none 
Of  us  ate  any  breakfast — only  one, 
And  that  was  Papa — and  his  eyes  were  red 
When  he  came  round  where  we  were,  by  the  shed 
Where  Jack  was  lying,  half-way  in  the  sun 
And  half-way  in  the  shade.    When  we  begun 
To  cry  out  loud,  Pa  turned  and  dropped  his  head 
And  went  away ;  and  Mamma,  she  went  back 
Into  the  kitchen.    Then,  for  a  long  while, 
All  to  ourselves,  like,  we  stood  there  and  cried. 
We  thought  so  many  good  things  of  Old  Jack, 
And  funny  things — although  we  didn't  smile — 
We  couldn't  only  cry  when  Old  Jack  died. 


WHEN"    OLD    JACK    DIED 


When  Old  Jack  died,  it  seemed  a  human  friend 

Had  suddenly  gone  from  us ;  that  some  face 

That  we  had  loved  to  fondle  and  embrace 

From  babyhood,  no  more  would  condescend 

To  smile  on  us  forever.    We  might  bend 

With  tearful  eyes  above  him,  interlace 

Our  chubby  fingers  o'er  him,  romp  and  race, 

Plead  with  him,  call  and  coax — aye,  we  might  send 

The  old  halloo  up  for  him,  whistle,  hist, 

(If  sobs  had  let  us)  or,  as  wildly  vain, 

Snapped  thumbs,  called  "Speak,"  and  he  had  not  re 

plied ; 

We  might  have  gone  down  on  our  knees  and  kissed 
The  tousled  ears,  and  yet  they  must  remain 
Deaf,  motionless,  we  knew — when  Old  Jack  died. 


164 


WHEN   OLD   JACK   DIED 

When  Old  Jack  died,  it  seemed  to  us,  some  way, 
That  all  the  other  dogs  in  town  were  pained 
With  our  bereavement,  and  some  that  were  chained, 
Even,  unslipped  their  collars  on  that  day 
To  visit  Jack  in  state,  as  though  to  pay 
A  last,  sad  tribute  there,  while  neighbors  craned 
Their  heads  above  the  high  board  fence,  and  deigned 
To  sigh  "Poor  Dog !"  remembering  how  they 
Had  cuffed  him,  when  alive,  perchance,  because, 
For  love  of  them  he  leaped  to  lick  their  hands — 
Now,  that  he  could  not,  were  they  satisfied  ? 
We  children  thought  that,  as  we  crossed  his  paws, 
And  o'er  his  grave,  'way  down  the  bottom-lands, 
Wrote  "Our  First  Love  Lies  Here,"  when  Old  Jack 
died. 


THAT  NIGHT 

YOU  and  I,  and  that  night,   with  its  perfume  and 
glory ! — 

The  scent  of  the  locusts — the  light  of  the  moon ; 
And  the  violin  weaving  the  waltzers  a  story, 
Enmeshing  their  feet  in  the  weft  of  the  tune, 
Till  their  shadows  uncertain 
Reeled  round  on  the  curtain, 
While  under  the  trellis  we  drank  in  the  June. 


THAT    NIGHT 

Soaked  through  with  the  midnight  the  cedars  were  sleep- 
ing, 

Their  shadowy  tresses  outlined  in  the  bright 
Crystal,  moon-smitten  mists,  where  the  fountain's  heart, 

leaping 

Forever,  forever  burst,  full  with  delight ; 
And  its  lisp  on  my  spirit 
Fell  faint  as  that  near  it 
Whose  love  like  a  lily  bloomed  out  in  the  night. 

O  your  glove  was  an  odorous  sachet  of  blisses ! 

The  breath  of  your  fan  was  a  breeze  from  Cathay! 
And  the  rose  at  your  throat  was  a  nest  of  spilled  kisses ! — 
And  the  music ! — in  fancy  I  hear  it  to-day, 
As  I  sit  here,  confessing 
Our  secret,  and  blessing 
My  rival  who  found  us,  and  waltzed  you  away, 


TO  ALMON  KEEPER 
INSCRIBED  IN  "TALES  OF  THE  OCEAN"' 

THIS  first  book  that  I  ever  knew 
Was  read  aloud  to  me  by  you — 
Friend  of  my  boyhood,  therefore  take 
It  back  from  me,  for  old  times'  sake — 
The  selfsame  "Tales"  first  read  to  me, 
Under  "the  old  sweet  apple  tree," 
Ere  I  myself  could  read  such  great 
Big  words, — but  listening  all  elate, 
At  your  interpreting,  until 
Brain,  heart  and  soul  were  all  athrill 
With  wonder,  awe,  and  sheer  excess 
Of  wildest  childish  happiness. 


TO   ALMON    KEEPER 

So  take  the  book  again — forget 
All  else, — long  years,  lost  hopes,  regret ; 
Sighs  for  the  joys  we  ne'er  attain, 
Prayers  we  have  lifted  all  in  vain ; 
Tears  for  the  faces  seen  no  more, 
Once  as  the  roses  at  the  door ! 
Take  the  enchanted  book — And  lo, 
On  grassy  swards  of  long  ago, 
Sprawl  out  again,  beneath  the  shade 
The  breezy  old-home  orchard  made, 
The  veriest  barefoot  boy  indeed — 
And  I  will  listen  as  you  read. 


TO  THE  QUIET  OBSERVER 

AFTER    HIS   LONG   SILENCE 

DEAR  old  friend  of  us  all  in  need 
Who  know  the  worth  of  a  friend  indeed, 
How  rejoiced  are  we  all  to  learn 
Of  your  glad  return. 


TO   THE    QUIET    OBSERVER 

We  who  have  missed  your  voice  so  long — 
Even  as  March  might  miss  the  song 
Of  the  sugar-bird  in  the  maples  when 
They're  tapped  again. 

Even  as  the  memory  of  these 
Blended  sweets, — the  sap  of  the  trees 
And  the  song  of  the  birds,  and  the  old  camp  too, 
We  think  of  you. 

Hail  to  you,  then,  with  welcomes  deep 
As  grateful  hearts  may  laugh  or  weep ! — 
You  give  us  not  only  the  bird  that  sings, 
But  all  good  things. 


REACH  YOUR  HAND  TO  ME 

REACH  your  hand  to  me,  my  friend, 
"With  its  heartiest  caress — 
Sometime  there  will  come  an  end 
To  its  present  faithfulness — 
Sometime  I  may  ask  in  vain 
For  the  touch  of  it  again. 
\Vhen  between  us  land  or  sea 
Holds  it  ever  back  from  me. 


REACH   YOUR   HAND  TO   ME 

Sometime  I  may  need  it  so, 

Groping  somewhere  in  the  night, 
It  will  seem  to  me  as  though 
Just  a  touch,  however  light, 

Would  make  all  the  darkness  day, 
And  along  some  sunny  way 
Lead  me  through  an  April-shower 
Of  my  tears  to  this  fair  hour. 

O  the  present  is  too  sweet 
To  go  on  forever  thus ! 
Round  the  corner  of  the  street 

\\Tio  can  say  what  waits  for  us? — 
Meeting — greeting,  night  and  day, 
Faring  each  the  selfsame  way — 
Still  somewhere  the  path  must  end — 
Reach  your  hand  to  me,  my  friend ! 


THE  DEAD  JOKE  AND  THE  FUNNY  MAN 

T  ONG  years  ago,  a  funny  man, 
I— '     Flushed  with  a  strange  delight, 
Sat  down  and  wrote  a  funny  thing 

All  in  the  solemn  night ; 
And  as  he  wrote  he  clapped  his  hands 
And  laughed  with  all  his  might. 
For  it  was  such  a  funny  thing, 
O,  such  a  very  funny  thing, 
This  wonderfully  funny  thing, 
He 

Laughed 

Outright. 


THE  DEAD  JOKE  AND  THE  FUNNY  MAN 

And  so  it  was  this  funny  man 
Printed  this  funny  thing — 
Forgot  it,  too,  nor  ever  thought 

It  worth  remembering, 
Till  but  a  day  or  two  ago. 

(Ah!  what  may  changes  bring!) 
He  found  this  selfsame  funny  thing 
In  an  exchange — "O,  funny  thing!" 
He  cried,  "You  dear  old  funny  thing!" 
And 
Sobbed 

Outright. 


AMERICA'S  THANKSGIVING 
1900 

FATHER  all  bountiful,  in  mercy  bear 
With  this  our  universal  voice  of  prayer — = 
The  voice  that  needs  must  be 
Upraised  in  thanks  to  Thee, 
O  Father,  from  Thy  children  everywhere. 

A  multitudinous  voice,  wherein  we  fain 
Wouldst  have  Thee  hear  no  lightest  sob  of  pain- 
No  murmur  of  distress, 
Nor  moan  of  loneliness, 
Nor  drip  of  tears,  though  soft  as  summer  rain. 


AMERICA  S    THANKSGIVING 

And,  Father,  give  us  first  to  comprehend, 

No  ill  can  come  from  Thee ;  lean  Thou  and  lend 

Us  clearer  sight  to  see 

Our  boundless  debt  to  Thee, 
Since  all  Thy  deeds  are  blessings,  in  the  end. 

And  let  us  feel  and  know  that,  being  Thine, 

We  are  inheritors  of  hearts  divine, 

And  hands  endowed  with  skill, 
And  strength  to  work  Thy  will, 

And  fashion  to  fulfilment  Thy  design. 

So,  let  us  thank  Thee,  with  all  self  aside, 
Nor  any  lingering  taint  of  mortal  pride ; 

As  here  to  Thee  we  dare 

Uplift  our  faltering  prayer, 
Lend  it  some  fervor  of  the  glorified. 

We  thank  Thee  that  our  land  is  loved  of  Thee 
The  blessed  home  of  thrift  and  industry, 

With  ever-open  door 

Of  welcome  to  the  poor — 
Thy  shielding  hand  o'er  all  abidingly. 


183 


AMERICA  S    THANKSGIVING 

E'en  thus  we  thank  Thee  for  the  wrong  that  grew 
Into  a  right  that  heroes  battled  to, 

With  brothers  long  estranged, 

Once  more  as  brothers  ranged 
Beneath  the  red  and  white  and  starry  blue. 

Ay,  thanks — though  tremulous  the  thanks  expressed- 
Thanks  for  the  battle  at  its  worst,  and  best — 

For  all  the  clanging  fray 

Whose  discord  dies  away 
Into  a  pastoral-song  of  peace  and  rest, 


OLD  INDIANY 

INTENDED  FOR  A  DINNER  OF  THE  INDIANA 
SOCIETY  OF  CHICAGO 

OLD  Indiany,  'course  we  know 
Is  first,  and  best,  and  most,  also, 
Of  all  the  States'  whole  forty-four: — 
She's  first  in  ever'thing,  that's  shore  !— 
And  best  in  ever'way  as  yet 
Made  known  to  man ;  and  you  kin  bet 
She's  most,  because  she  won't  confess 
She  ever  was,  or  will  be,  less! 
And  yet,  fer  all  her  proud  array 
Of  sons,  how  many  gits  away ! — 


OLD   INDIANY 


No  doubt  about  her  bein'  great, 
But,  fellers,  she's  a  leaky  State ! 
And  them  that  boasts  the  most  about 
Her,  them's  the  ones  that's  dribbled  out, 
Law !  jes'  to  think  of  all  you  boys 
'Way  over  here  in  Illinoise 
A-celebratin',  like  ye  air, 
Old  Indiany,  'way  back  there 
In  the  dark  ages,  so  to  speak, 
A-prayin'  for  ye  once  a  week 
And  wonderin'  what's  a-keepin'  you 
From  comin',  like  you  ort  to  do. 
You're  all  a-lookin'  well,  and  like 
You  wasn't  "sidin'  up  the  pike," 
As  the  tramp-shoemaker  said 
When  "he  sacked  the  boss  and  shed 
The  blame  town,  to  hunt  fer  one 
Where  they  didn't  work  fer  fun !" 
Lookin'  extry  well,  I'd  say, 
Your  old  home  so  fur  away. — 


186 


OLD    INDIANY 

Maybe,  though,  like  the  old  jour.s 
Fun  hain't  all  yer  workin'  fer. 
So  you've  found  a  job  that  pays 
Better  than  in  them  old  days 
You  was  on  The  Weekly  Press, 
Heppin'  run  things,  more  er  less ; 
Er  a-learnin'  telegraph- 
Operatin',  with  a  half- 
Notion  of  the  tinner's  trade, 
Er  the  dusty  man's  that  laid 
Out  designs  on  marble  and 
Hacked  out  little  lambs  by  hand, 
And  chewed  finecut  as  he  wrought, 
"Shapin'  from  his  bitter  thought" 
Some  squshed  mutterings  to  say, — 
"Yes,  hard  work,  and  porer  pay !" 
Er  you'd  kind  o'  thought  the  far- 
Gazin'  kuss  that  owned  a  car 
And  took  pictures  in  it,  had 
Jes'  the  snap  you  wanted — bad ! 
And  you  even  wondered  why 
He  kep'  foolin'  with  his  sky- 
Light  the  same  on  shiny  days 
As  when  rainin'.     (T  leaked  always.) 

189 


OLD   INDIANY 

Wondered  what  strange  things  was  hid 
In  there  when  he  shet  the  door 
And  smelt  like  a  burnt  drug  store 
Next  some  orchard-trees,  i  swanl 
With  whole  roasted  apples  on ! 
That's  why  Ade  is,  here  of  late, 
Buyin'  in  the  dear  old  state, — 
So's  to  cut  it  up  in  plots 
Of  both  town  and  country  lots, 


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